Masterstroke
by OverlordFombax
Summary: To unravel Riddler's lastest atrocity, Batman must probe the darkest corners of his rogues gallery, starting with a decrepit Mad Hatter and a shocking revelation... Gritty, cerebral, and full o' fan service. My first fic, T for implied sex/ mild violence
1. Shards and Shivers

_Welcome to my first ever fic. I hope it's appreciated. Takes place in sort of a midpoint between the Nolanverse and the world of the Arkham Asylum video game. I like my Batverse realistic, but superpowered. If you like gritty supervillain psychology, twisty-turny suspense plots, and the Dark Knight at his most badass, this is for you. This'll be pretty long, assuming someone takes interest. It'll have Hatter, Riddler, Clayface, Croc, Catwoman, and good old Mr. J... and that's just what I'll reveal for now. Enjoy and review, folks._

_Disclaimer - I don't own The Batman... I AM The Batman!_

Masterstroke

Part 1: Shards and Shivers

/

The patient ward of Arkham Asylum fell into a rare silence as the Dark Knight strode swiftly through its doors. Gotham's most unstable criminals normally bombarded the ears of the long-suffering staff with a cacophony of vengeful cursing, pleas of innocence, and pure animal howling. Nonetheless, whenever that man cast his shadow on the stark tile of the cell block, a hush spread over the inmates like a wave, for they all knew at once: someone was in _trouble._

Batman liked it this way. It gave him a moment's peace, so he could survey what he had accomplished. Row after row of successes, his most dangerous enemies displayed like trophies, each representing a different plague on humankind that he had stamped out. It wasn't like visiting Blackgate. There, his sane enemies and the thugs he had delivered to justice would scream their desires to tear him to pieces the second they got the chance. Criminals were a superstitious, cowardly lot, but you put bars between you and them and they became Spartans. No fear. The truly damaged ones here in Arkham, though, the ones like Two-Face and Zsasz… their lives were already nightmares. Ruled by the murky id, their fears were solid objects, and they feared the Bat most of all. Seeing him in person chilled them to the core.

Well, not all of them. "High five, Batsy. High five. Gimme a high five," chanted Clayface from behind the thick glass window of his specialized cell. As a sort of sick joke, he'd shifted into the form of a young Jason Todd and was frantically jumping around and smacking the smudged pane. "Good to see ya. Gimme a hug. Handshake. Give your old pal some love."

"Nice try, Basil," replied Batman, unmoved. He continued down the hall without sparing the corrosive shape-shifter a second glance. Clayface, however, morphed into his true protoplasmic form and sank to his knees, moaning in sorrow: "No one will _touch _meeeee…"

Further down the hall, he was nearly startled by a raking of claws on a huge metal door. Nearly. Behind the door, Killer Croc hissed at him: "I smell _guano._ I know it's you, Bat-freak… Come on inside and let me taste you. I'm so hungry. They only feed me _rabbit food_ – "

"– And we all know you want the whole rabbit," finished Batman. "Stick with the diet, Waylon. It'll do you wonders."

"_Come back here!" _Croc roared, but it was too late. The Caped Crusader was on a mission, and he couldn't be stopped. Croc knew that. He went back to gnawing on his arm.

Finally, Batman rounded a corner and came upon Correctional Officer Aaron Cash. "Find your way all right?" Cash muttered gruffly. "A guy can get lost in here."

"Brought my map," said Batman, patting his utility belt. This joke was a thin disguise for his obsession; Batman knew Arkham's floor plan like he knew his own home.

Cash chuckled. "Hope you brought something to read, too. Who knows how long it'll take to get anything outta this guy?"

Batman cocked his head.

"Of course, if anyone can -"

"I know, Cash. Open the door."

"You got it." As he lifted the key ring with his hook, Cash gave Batman some advice: "Don't mention his new hat. Or, if you do, compliment him. Otherwise…"

"He's a goner."

"Yep. Been gone for years. Got some seriously advanced dementia in that big head. I'd almost feel sorry for the bastard if he hadn't killed so many of my friends." Cash found the key and the key found the lock. "You ready, man?"

"Always." The door swung open for the Dark Knight – as doors so often do. The man inside the cell could be heard faintly humming some old carousel tune. "I suppose it's time for tea," Batman remarked, and with that, he stepped into the dimly lit room to meet Jervis Tetch – better known to his victims as The Mad Hatter.

Tetch sat at a lone table in the center of the near-empty room, waiting for something. Godot, perhaps. It couldn't have been Batman, because Tetch didn't even blink when he entered. No, it seemed like the Hatter had been waiting for something for a very long time. He was a small man of seventy-odd years, wiry gray hair sprouting in all directions from above his crumpled ears. The main attraction on his head was, of course, the hat, but Tetch's headgear had seen better days. He'd simply flipped over his regulation plastic bowl and was proudly wearing it like a helmet. His blue-white eyes radiated blindness, confusion – life stretched too thin. The Mad Hatter hunched over in his chair, his thin-lipped mouth twitching minutely as he hummed away, but devoid of expression. Batman's superior analytical skills deemed the once-formidable super-criminal thoroughly harmless. This worried him. Nothing in Gotham City was harmless.

His cape swishing, Batman moved to the chair opposite Tetch. Placing a gloved hand on the chair, he nodded and spoke to the Hatter. "May I?"

Blank staring was the only answer he got. Batman sat down nonetheless. "It's been a while, Jervis." No reply. "How are you feeling?" Nothing. "Good to hear. I've been wanting to talk to you."

Tetch slowly lifted a plastic teacup he held in a rheumatic, shaking hand. It was empty, yet he raised it to his lips and "drank."

"Good tea, Jervis?" Silence. Batman sighed. Time to play to his compulsions. "Nice hat."

And the Mad Hatter smiled, wide, and dreamlike. The humming began to crescendo, and he began to rock back and forth in his seat. Interesting. Batman continued: "Where'd you get it?"

"Made it… made it…" the Hatter finally said in a voice like the rusted gates of Arkham itself. "With these two hands…"

"It's exquisite. What is it for?"

The Hatter froze. "For?... What do you mean?"

"Your old hats always did… things."

"No, sir, this is a new hat, a _new _hat."

Batman's patience was wearing thin. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "You know what I mean, Jervis. Your hats killed people. Robbed them of their free will. Your little tricks stole the souls right out from under their owners' noses."

Tetch shook his head. "No, sir, no, never killed, never killed. Only whisked them away. Showed them a better world. A happy place, a happy place."

"A _dead_ place. You killed children."

"_THE CHILDREN!" _squealed the Hatter, suddenly shrinking away, grabbing his hat and holding it down on his head. Then he smiled. "They were so nice, really. So nice." He licked his lips and raised his cup. "A toast to the children. May they live forever and ever and - "

Without missing a beat, Batman smacked the cup out of Tetch's palsied hand. It clanked against the wall. Tetch looked like he might cry. Batman cleared his throat. "No, Jervis. _No._"

They stared at each other for a few moments. Finally, Tetch's eyes narrowed, and the fog inside them seemed to clear away for a moment. "Hello, Detective."

_Bingo. Psychology._ "Hello, Jervis."

"What's the matter of the day?"

"You have something I need."

"I'm sorry, we're fresh out of senses-of-humor. But if you come back tomorrow, pumpkin - "

"Shut up. I don't have time for games. People are dying."

"Death is merely an adventure."

"And so is lifelong imprisonment. Jervis. You've worked with Riddler before. Tell me about him."

"Edward? My dear Edward. We had such nice parties."

"Yes. I remember one when the two of you led me on a scavenger hunt for the remains of those people you brainwashed that little girl into killing."

The Hatter chuckled. "Yes, yes… Little Evelyn… she was curious. So many questions at first… so few later… lovely…"

"You 'programmed' her to jump off a bridge if I solved the case. What does that say about your 'love?'"

"That it was the most beautiful kind, oh yes." The Hatter leaned back, putting his bare feet with long, jagged nails on the table. "We taught her to play such wonderful games - "

That was enough for Batman. He hurled the table aside and lunged forward to grab the old man roughly by the front of his gown. "I don't want to hear about your _sickness!_ " he growled. "Now _tell_ me why you never worked with Riddler again after that… that 'party.'"

Tetch grinned an awful toothy grin. "Never, never! Secrets and spoilers! Powder kegs and ticking clocks!" The Hatter laughed and twitched, his old eyes dancing, until the enraged Batman decided: the hat had to go. In a fluid motion, he whisked the bowl off Tetch's head and threw him on the floor.

"Now _tell_ me! Tell me what you know!" snarled the Bat, holding the headgear high above the mess of a man.

"_NO! GIVE IT BACK!" _Tetch burst into tears, shivering and scratching uncontrollably at the bald top of his head. Batman could see the scars where he'd done so before; he intended to let them open up again. "_PLEASE please PLEASE, I need it need it NEEEED IT!"_

"Not until you earn it."

"Don't you _understand?"_ They can _get_ me if I'm not _protected! _The ghosts, the boys and girls, the little hands from the other world! They'll steal my _breath_! They'll make me _OLD!"_

Batman didn't flinch. "You'll feel it, Tetch. You'll feel them punishing you for what you've done. You'll be sorry. You'll see the world for what it really is, not this disgusting fantasy you created. Or…" He wiggled the plastic bowl over the poor creature's head. "… You can tell me what happened with you and Edward Nigma. Your choice, Jervis."

Tetch had curled up into a ball and was breathing as if he wanted to shred his own lungs. After a long silence, he lifted his pathetic visage to face his old enemy. "All right… All right. Checkmate. Checkmate for the Big Bad Bat. Just please, please, save me from the _sweet little CHILDREN!"_

Before he could shriek much longer, Batman crammed the little bowl back on the Hatter's cranium. Jervis Tetch breathed a transcendent sigh of relief. As he caressed the hat, Batman knelt down next to him and asked in a hushed tone, "Now, please, Jervis. Just tell me about the good times you had with Edward. Tell me why they ended."

"Oh yes, the times, the times, they slip away like sand." Batman allowed Tetch to wipe his miserable eyes on his cape before he continued. "I loved him. He was so young, so smart… the boy could enter other _worlds…_ He didn't want me, though. He didn't want an ugly old man with red hair. You know I had red hair back then?"

"I remember."

"Sweet mercy, yes. And he didn't like that I wanted to _learn_ him. I learned _everything _about him. I studied him. And I found out his… his secret… his little ace in the hole… how I love to play the game of trumps… You're nothing but a pack of cards…" Tetch started to shake again, his eyes clouding over. His lucidity was waning.

"No!" shouted Batman, grabbing the old fellow by his shoulders. "What was the secret? _TELL ME, HATTER!"_

But the Mad Hatter had gone back to Wonderland. "Oh, the times, the times, the jolly old times… You remember them, don't you?... Everyone was so… nicely dressed… Even you… _Bruce_…"

And the Dark Knight's heart stopped as dead as everyone he had ever lost. _"WHAT? What did you just say, Tetch?"_

Suddenly wild-eyed with fear, Jervis clutched his hat like it was the only thing separating him from the grave. "_No! NO! Nothing at all! Pay no heed! Pay no heed! I know nothing, nothing, my head is full of NOTHING! NO ROOM! NO ROOM! NO ROOM, BRUCE WAYNE!" _He then clapped his hand over his mouth, two words too late.

Batman rose, his world spinning, blood swimming in his ears. "_What. Did. You. DO?" _

In a final burst of desperation, the Mad Hatter yanked the precious bowl off his head, hurled it at Batman's chest plate, and began to screech so loud the devil could hear him: "_CHANGE PLACES! CHAAAAANGE PLACES!"_

The case was closed here. Batman whirled around and flew out the door, ignoring the wretched old man raising hell behind him. He breezed past the bewildered Cash, past Croc and Clayface, and the scores of enemies held in cages that now seemed as fragile as paper. At last, he erupted through the gates of Arkham Asylum and threw himself into the Batmobile. He scrambled for a piece of paper he'd secured in a pouch on his belt. Unfolding it, he reread the note the Riddler had left at the scene of his latest gruesome crime:

_"My Dear Defective Detective, riddle me this… _

_My crimes come in all sorts of patterns and styles, but only one comes in 10/6._

_I think that you'll find that the Riddler's mind is not what you're looking to fix._

_So seek out the one who's second to none in making your willpower crumble._

_And fin'lly you'll know the crux of my show – the Dark Knight's DEADLIEST fumble!_

_Good luck… _

_RIDDLER_

Batman allowed himself a moment to simply lean back and grimace. This was going to be a long night. Luckily, he knew exactly where to go next. Seconds later, the Batmobile was streaking toward the bright lights of Gotham City, the man at its wheel determined to bring justice to his world once and for all.

He'd fallen down the rabbit hole, and there was no turning back.


	2. Graphomania

_Looks like I got some readers last time! Here's a slightly shorter, but still epic chapter. Plenty of Riddler for all. Hope you all like it! Please review, even if it's just to suggest characters you'd like to see... Thanks!_

_I still don't own Batman, guys..._

Part 2: Graphomania

A dark night, a dark room, and a dark man illuminated only by his computer screens.

The Riddler was scribbling away, as usual.

Graphomania - the psychotic, constant compulsion to write. The doctors never focused on that. Instead, they told Edward that he was obsessive-compulsive – that his beloved riddles were forces of habit, constraints he set for himself. His weakness. They told him he was desperate to never be known. To remain an E. Nigma. To leave behind nothing but question marks.

But they didn't _understand_.

It wasn't about the _question_, for him. For the police, the doctors, everybody else, yes, the question of his true motives was what mattered. He was a twisted mystery. An endless conundrum. Something to _solve. _But deep down, Edward needed _answers._ Rather, he needed to _have_ the answers. A cheat sheet for all of reality, so that he could never lose. Only one man in the world could crack his codes and, well… let's just say Edward had been slowly, masterfully been revealing his _final_ answer for a while now.

Edward had learned the truth, and he _needed_ to share his knowledge with the world. Day after day, he had scrawled his glorious message all over the walls of Gotham, just before knocking them down. He was sick, so very sick of writing, but he had to go on. He was the teacher. He was the prophet. He was the mouthpiece of _God._

The work had taken much time from him, because of course Edward was terrified of what would happen if he ever _stopped_ writing. Perhaps the sky would fall down. You see, if he ever finished his perfect, elegant theorem, then every awful truth in the universe might manifest with it. _We love only ourselves. God is dead. Nothing is real. _And then everything would disappear…

Suddenly, the Riddler stopped riddling. He had forgotten to breathe again. It was as if his analytical mind had left his basic reptilian brain behind years ago. Riddler had to remain vigilant, or he'd lose his grip on reality. Refilling his lungs, Riddler wiped down his pen with a moist towelette and gingerly placed it on his desk. He surveyed his handiwork, wondering if it really needed a signature. _He'll know. Won't he?_

_BLEEEEP!_ The blaring alarm spared Riddler from deciding for the moment. He adjusted his trademark green bowler hat and grinned as his fingers quickly tuned the main view screen to the source of the disturbance. It was as he thought – Master Wayne had returned home, and the plan was going perfectly.

The cameras had been installed years ago. From every angle, Wayne Manor was exposed before Edward. The naked truth. Of course, every villain in Gotham knew how impossible it was to track the Bat. Can't plant a tracking device on the Batmobile – the high-tech chariot generates a powerful electromagnetic field that knocks out any device not tuned to the Bat-freak's unique frequency. The sonar technology in his suit sends waves of feedback to any radar attempting to track his movements. So Riddler was still no match for The Dark Knight. Bruce Wayne, however, was a different story. Bruce Wayne was no force of nature. He was just a man, and his fatal mistake had left the door wide open for the Riddler and his machinations. (What was that fatal mistake, you ask? "Spoiler alert," smirks the Riddler.)

Did he need to watch what happened next? He already knew that Batman was just popping in to make sure his fortress hadn't been attacked; knowing that his identity had been compromised was surely torturing the Detective as he ran through his list of loved ones in his head. _That_, Riddler mused, _is why loved ones are overrated._ Besides, he was certain of the one place Brucie would check first, and he was oh-so-ready for that. So he could just turn off the computer, if he really wanted to... yet his gaze lingered. Batman had arrived in his cave, where he then yanked off his cowl, probably to clear his head. _God_, thought Edward, marveling once again at the vulnerable, undeniably human face of his most feared enemy. _I never thought you'd be so beautiful…_

Finally, the genius managed to avert his eyes. _Yes. He has to know._ Without further pause, Riddler seized his pen and added his signature to the canvas sprawled before him. It shuddered, and Riddler froze. Had he taken too long? No, it couldn't be. It was just a little twitch. The bitch wasn't going anywhere – the drugs were too strong. Gingerly wiping the last few drops of blood away, he proofread the riddle carved into the nude woman's back one last time before calling in a thug.

"Take her away, Arnie. You know what to do."

"Yes, sir."

"And don't you _dare_ read it. You know what happens if anyone other than Batman sees it."

"Yes, sir."

"You try to know the mind of God, and you will know nothing but _pain."_

"Yes, sir."

"Now get out of here."

"Yes, sir." Dismissed, Arnie hoisted the woman onto his back, grinning at thoughts of what he might do to her gorgeous body. Of course, he wouldn't. Not with Riddler watching. Riddler was always watching. He should have never signed up for this job…

Riddler watched him leave with mild interest. Arnie was a good henchman, but not one of the best. The delivery car was rigged to explode five minutes after he left the drop-off point. It was brutal, but necessary. Riddler _had_ to make sure that he didn't know. No one could know but _him._ No one knew how to keep a damn secret. No one understood. Still, it was worth the risk to be able to watch from a distance as his plan played out. Having secured his home, Batman would call Catwoman, needing backup, yet he would receive no answer. He'd race off to her house, break down the door, and find Selina Kyle sprawled face-down on her bed, beaten, bloody, barely alive, and etched with the most glorious riddles. And he would howl with rage. And probably punch something. And lucky Riddler would get to see it all.

It had been easy to trap the Cat, once he had the name. The name was his skeleton key for all of Gotham, and now he finally had free reign to use it. No more useless deathtraps. No more obvious puns. No more of the _years _of painfully faking defeat. The game was up. The Riddler looked upon his works and saw that they were good. More clownish villains would have tossed their heads back and cackled wildly into the night. Riddler, though, had work to do. He flicked the view screen on, took out his sketchbook, and began drawing Bruce's face for the millionth time as he glared at the computer. As his pencil captured every line of his rival's visage, Edward basked in the warmth of his own genius. It was _perfect… Soon, you can stop hiding. All thanks to me. From now on, Bruce… you're _mine.


End file.
